A bright, starry night
by SwedenSara
Summary: It was on a bright, starry night that the traveling circus rolled into town. Various short original stories written for Writer's Digest Blog and The Writing Photo Prompt Challenge blog.
1. A bright, starry night

**Written for Writer's Digest Blog - Promptly by Zachary Petit: blog(.)writersdigest(.)com/promptly/What+Happened+When+The+Circus+Rolled+Into+Town+Tell+Us+And+You+Might+Get+Published+In+WD(.)aspx**

**Prompt: It was on a bright, starry night that the traveling circus rolled into town.**

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_**A bright, starry night**_

It was on a bright, starry night that the traveling circus rolled into town. The air was crisp and clear after the afternoon's quick drizzle, and a slight breeze rustled the recently full-blown spring leaves in the aspen glade. She listened to the distant sounds of the circus tent being set up, people hollering and animals bellowing. A movement to her right caught her attention, and she saw the form of a girl standing behind a honeysuckle bush. The sweet scent wafted through the air, and as she watched her step forward, her breath caught and her chest swelled. The girl smiled, cocked an eye-brow and strode towards her. An arm was offered to her, and a whispered 'come with me' wiped away all fear, wonders and uncertainty. She just knew, and she went with her.

It was on a bright, starry night that the traveling circus rolled into town. The air was dry and still hot from the day's quivering heat. No breeze rustled the dark green leaves in the aspen glade, and as she waited for her girl by the honeysuckle bush, the sounds of circus tents, hollering people and bellowing animals drifted towards her. Twigs cracked behind her, and she felt slender, yet strong, arms encircle her body. A soft bosom pressed against her back, and a gentle breath whispered loving words in her ear, mending her heart and drying her tears. She turned around, pressed her forehead against hers, and 'please don't leave me again' slipped out, floated in the dusk for a second and then found their way to another heart that needed mending.

It was on a bright, starry night that the traveling circus rolled into town. The air was chilly and still damp from the evening's heavy rain, and violent winds shook the trees in the aspen glade, tearing golden leaves from silvery branches. The red berries on the honeysuckle caught her attention, as she waited for her family. Tents, people and animals made familiar noises that blended with the approaching sounds of squelching feet in rubber boots and the rustling of rainwear. The children's tiny warm hands slipped into her larger ones and filled her soul with purpose, and her woman's laughter spread love in her body. Fits of giggles and 'hurry up, let's go' echoed in the night, adding a childish excitement to an event that held meanings the small ones did not yet understand.

It was on a dark, gloomy night that the traveling circus rolled into town. The air was cold and biting, from the drop in temperature during the day. Snow drifted across the frozen ground; a thin shroud of white dust, a reminder of ashes spread and a love gone too soon. Thick, white frost covered the branches in the aspen glade, like crystal on granite, like diamonds on silver rings. No one was there with her to share the moment, and the silence was ripped apart by sounds that she no longer wished to hear. No arms were offered, no hands sought hers. No voice uttered words that spoke to her heart.

'I miss you, love' lingered in the air as she left her love, her life and her joy behind in the aspen glade.


	2. A Place to Hide

**Written for ****The Writing Photo Prompt Challenge, http : / / picprompt . blogspot . com**

**The photo prompts can be found here: **

**http : / / mani . files . wordpress . com/2005/12/lovely-iran . jpg?w=550**

**http : / / data . whicdn . com/images/8078522/tumblr_libji9rnDO1qfbg66o1_500_large . jpg?1300637699**

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_**A place to hide**_

All my life I've been looking for places to hide. When I was little, I hid for fun - in the closet, under the table, or behind the couch. I sat there, waiting in rapt anticipation for my parents or my big sister to find me. I giggled with joy as I listened to their voices, laced with pretended concern for my well being as they called for me, begging me to come back to them. In some ways, I knew that they just played along to make me happy and that they were aware of my whereabouts all the time, but I still loved the feeling of being missed, of hearing them cry and telling each other how their lives were not complete without me. It was just for show, but it made me feel loved and cherished. I _was_ loved and cherished, and toying with the idea of disappearing made me realize what an impact it would have on the lives of my loved ones if I really did go missing. For a while, that understanding made me anxious about letting go of my mother's hand in the supermarket, or losing sight of my family on the playground or the beach, but I grew out of it.

My talent for finding good hiding-places came in handy in school, in positive as well as negative ways. During my first school-years I excelled when playing hide-and-seek in recess, but my friends grew tired of never finding me. Once, they decided they had had enough, and just left me. I waited and waited, and when I realized they had actually abandoned me, I cried. I stayed in my place and didn't go back to class that afternoon. I felt betrayed and ashamed, an odd mixture; betrayed because they left me, and ashamed because everyone would _know_ that they left me. Everyone would know that I was the one singled out, the black sheep, the one not worthy of finding. They would point their fingers at me and whisper, covering their mouths and giggling, and when I would look at them they would quickly look away. I knew that. I had seen it happen so many times. That evening, my parents got the first of many calls from the teachers about my missing class.

From then on, I stayed out of the hide-and-seek games, with the intention to always be close to my friends so they wouldn't leave me again. Unfortunately, that was a mistake. They suddenly seem to find me annoying, but I didn't know why or what I had done wrong. It was as if the choice to abandon me during hide-and-seek united them closely and made it okay for them to freeze me out.

I quickly adapted to being "the lonely one." I thought that, if I gave them time and kept my distance, they would come back to me. I wasn't happy with it, but I figured that at least it couldn't get worse. They didn't come back, and it did get worse. A lot worse. And my skills at hiding came in handy again.

I usually hid in the woods behind out school. The moss-covered trunks and the leafy branches, the huge boulders and the uprooted trees, they were all on my side, offering me solitude, solace and security. The only difference was that now, I didn't want to be found. So many times I decided to just stay in the forest forever, to disappear and never come back. Then I thought of my family, searching for me and calling my name like they did when I was little, only this time it would be for real. And I realized that if I did leave, then the sorrow in their voices, the despair and concern, it wouldn't be just for show anymore. It would be sincere. I couldn't do that to them. So I came back, every time, only to face my antagonists once again.

I survived, though. I'm grown up now, and I have friends who would never leave me behind. The scars are still there, and I still look for hide-outs wherever I go, just in case. It's like a reflex, an unconscious act meant to prevent and protect. I haven't told them what happened to me, and to be honest, I don't remember much of it. I've repressed it, pushed the worst stuff so far away in my mind that I'm not sure I could remember it even if i tried. I don't want to remember, but my therapist says I should. She thinks my life would be better if I dealt with it. I can't see why reliving that would make anything better at all. I think those memories are perfectly fine where they are, banished from my conscious mind and locked away.

Today, as I look down on the big city below, I realize how much it looks like a forest. The skyscrapers reach for the sky, offering me millions of hideouts. It's not like the forest at home, but it'll work. It'll make me feel safe.


	3. Fight and Flight

**Written for ****The Writing Photo Prompt Challenge, http : / / picprompt . blogspot . com**

**The photo prompts can be found here: **

**http : / / data . whicdn . com/images/8078180/tumblr_lid5ug5AuC1qi04tao1_500_large . jpg?1300637126**

**http : / / s3prod . weheartit . netdna-cdn . com/images/4585803/tumblr_larsp5QjUS1qe9at6o1_500_large . jpg?1288022015**

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_**Fight and Flight**_

The sound of the slamming door is still lingering in our apartment. The walls are still vibrating from the impact, and the words I shouted in anger still float around in the air. I want to take them back, but I can't. That's how it is with words. Once uttered, they stay out there, always present in people's minds, poisoning their memories and obstructing your chances of ever making it right again. I crawl up in the window and seat myself on the ledge, leaning against the frame. I light a cigarette and take out my phone, typing a message for her.

**Please come back inside.**

I hear the beep from the staircase, and realize she's still outside the door. She's probably sitting on the stairs, all dolled up in her new blue dress, with tears messing up her mascara. I fiddle with my phone waiting for her answer, and look at it dreadfully as it chimes with an incoming message.

**No.**

My fingers move by themselves, not allowing my brain to have any opinion on what to write.

**Please. I'm sorry.**

Her response is too quick, too harsh, too decisive.

**Fuck you.**

I try a different approach.

**You can't sit on those stairs forever, you know.**

I stare at the phone, the cigarette slowly burning in my hand, ash falling down in my lap, as I wait.

**I won't. I'm leaving.**

My fingers are back in charge, typing away without asking my brain for advice again.

**NO! Wait. Don't go.**

**You want me? Come and get me.**

I stare at the phone. Should I go to her? She told me to stay away from her, to back off. Now she wants me to follow? I don't get her. These kinds of games in relationships have always been my weak point. I debate my options. If I stay inside, like she ordered me to at first, she'll probably use that against me, claiming I showed her that I don't care about her by not coming out. If I do follow, chances are she'll engage me in another fight that I'll most likely lose. Either way, it's bound to end up worse than it already is.

I light another cigarette and sigh as I look out the window, down on the kids on the playground and their stay-at-home moms. Moving to this neighbourhood was a bad idea. We should have stayed in the city, close to the night-life and the lesbian clubs, instead of moving out here to try to play 'ordinary family.' I miss the gay scene, the diversity in the city and the tolerance for difference. I hate this conformity, it's a threat to everything that I am.

I don't understand why she wanted to fit in with these people. They don't want us anyway. I can tell from the way they look at me in the staircase and always keeps a secure distance when waiting for the bus. I don't think she notices. She's not as obvious with her sexual preferences as I am, with her being bi and all. I'm not exactly butch, but I'm not even close to being feminine. She is, though.

She's pretty, with long hair, makeup and dresses, heels and purses.

I have jeans and a tee.

She likes both men and women.

I only like women.

Men ogle her when she goes out, they flirt shamelessly and try to get her into bed. The fact that she has a girlfriend only seems to spur them on, like it's a proof of their masculinity to bed a lesbian. That is what today's fight is about. She's going out, without me, to a straight bar, and I know that if she decides she want one of the many men who will come on to her tonight, I have nothing to compete with. If she wants cock, I'm out of the game, because I don't have one.

She says I don't trust her. I guess she's right.

She says I'm insecure, and I guess I am.

She says I've got penis envy, and in this case, I guess I do.

I never wanted to have a cock, until I met her. I never wanted to be a man, but now, I wish I could be both to her. I can't, and that's killing me. I want to be everything she'll ever want, but that's biologically impossible.

I think I should go to her. That's the right thing to do. I hope she's still out there.

I open the door and peek down the staircase. I hear heels clicking on the floor a few stories down, and the front door slams as she disappears outside.

I waited too long this time.


	4. Human Waste

**Written for The Writing Photo Prompt Challenge, http : / / picprompt . blogspot . com**

**The photo prompt can be found here: **

**http : / / data . whicdn . com/images/8248483/tumblr_li7mjvsZY81qba7pxo1_500_large . jpg?1301164283**

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_**Human waste**_

She waits in the shadows behind the school gym, hidden from the rest of them, pressed against the wall of the old brick building. The smell of rotting food from the trash cans has become so familiar that it feels like home. People rarely come here because of the stench, and the cans offer a place to hide should someone turn up anyway. She's noticed that spending time close to trashes sometimes gives her an advantage, and sometimes makes things worse. They often take detours in the school corridors to avoid the smell, but sometimes they tease her about it, adding it to the long list of things they consider wrong, unnatural and disgusting about her. It makes sense to her, though. To them, she's nothing more than human waste, garbage, white trash. She might as well smell like it.

As the parking lot in front of the school becomes more and more deserted, she finally sneaks out of her hiding place. She hurries across the open area, desperate to reach the long line of cars. She ducks down between two of them and pauses, listening closely. She's sure she heard something, but now it's quiet. She stares at the front door, registering the shadows of a few students inside, walking by.

Classes are about to begin, she doesn't have much time left. There's no need for her to go to her locker, she abandoned that a long time ago. Everything she needs is in her backpack anyway, since it gives her the opportunity to spend a minimal amount of time among her fellow students inside the school.

She watches the clock on the wall, knowing exactly how many minutes she needs to get from the parking lot to the classroom just before the teacher closes the door. She'll be the last one in, sneaking inside and taking her place close to the door. She'll also be the first one out; she's fast.

Four minutes left.

Three. She counts to 30, and then it's time to run.

Halfway to the doors something - _someone_ - comes flying from the right and knocks her to the ground. She has her backpack slung over her left shoulder, and even though it softens most of the impact, she also feels the edge of a book boring into her side. Before she's registered what - _who_ - has hit her, she's hauled off the ground and into the woods behind the school. Her feet are dragged against the hard surface, and she notices she's lost a shoe somewhere along the way. The school is disappearing behind the tree line, and she suddenly finds herself dumped on the cold, moist forest floor.

"Your clothes smell like shit, you know that?"

She closes her eyes. The light voice is familiar, as is the demeaning tone. She can smell her, a heavy, flowery perfume permeating and overtaking the earthy scent of the forest. A small stream is floating by, creating a purling background to the girls voice.

"We need to get you out of them."

The voice is still light, feigning positivity and pretending to be friendly. Small but rough hands rip the clothes off her body and she hears the sound of them being thrown in the water. She keeps her eyes closed, trying to focus on the sounds of birds singing, the rustling of leafs and the breeze through her hair.

"There you go. Nice and clean. You should thank me, you know, for being such a kind-hearted and selfless person. I even help you clean your clothes."

The voice quiets, and she hears the sound of the girl's foot impatiently tapping the ground.

"Well?"

She opens her mouth and whispers.

"Thank you."


	5. Blueberry Muffins et al

**Written for http : / / picprompt . blogspot . com . Inspired by the following picture:**

**http : / / data . whicdn . com/images/10213869/tumblr_llwscn9a6k1qjekaco1_500_?1306593808**

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_**Blueberry muffins et al.**_

I sighed in relief as I sat down on the bench outside the motel, slipped my shoes off and stretched my legs. It was so good to finally get out of those heels, and I wiggled my toes, relishing the feeling of air drifting across my legs and cooling my swollen feet. I wasn't used to spending so much time in that kind of shoes, and I definitely didn't plan on doing it again anytime soon. Those shoes were a part of today's costume and a meek attempt to comply with my parents expectations to look at least a bit feminine during the annual family get-together. It was a completely pointless and highly unnecessary thing to do. My relatives had seen me since I was a kid, and they were all aware of my tomboy ways. The only times they ever saw me in skirt and heels were at those get-togethers, so I really didn't understand who my parents thought they were fooling. In my opinion, it was silly.

The hardened gel in my hair was annoying me to no end, and I ruffled it with my hands to get rid of the stiffness. I wanted my hair back to the soft state I was used to, not that stupid, shiny helmet of a hair-do that my mother thought fitted the strict, figure-hugging outfit she'd picked out for me. At the age of twenty-five, I still felt like a small girl when my mother was around. She kept dressing me up like a doll, every chance she got, and played the old guilt card on me whenever I objected. It usually ended up with her getting her way, and me suffering away in something way more girly than I felt comfortable with. As the years progressed, girly got exchanged for sexy, which got exchanged for feminine. That made me wonder what was next - ladylike when I hit thirty? Old spinster for my fortieth birthday? Shroud at the age of fifty?

I shrugged out of the tight jacket and hung it over the backrest before picking up my cup of coffee. The heat emanated from the paper cup and the distinct scent of freshly made cappuccino wafted through the air and into my nostrils. The blueberry muffin sat beside me on the bench, tempting me, and I eyed it as I sipped the hot liquid.

"Oh, don't you worry, Miss Muffin, I'll deal with you later." I smirked at it, and snorted internally at the double meaning. I would definitely want to deal with someone's muffin later, unfortunately I had no Miss whatsoever whose muffin I could expect to get in close vicinity of. The last muffins I'd had the pleasure of eating all had blueberry or chocolate flavor, and as tasty as that was, it didn't quite get me off.

A shadow fell over me and I heard someone clear her voice. I peeked up at a girl, approximately my age, carrying a Starbucks cup and a blueberry muffin just like mine.

"Is this seat free" she asked and nodded to the space next to me on the bench, "or is it taken by that muffin of yours?"

Since my mind was already in the gutter and all, the words that came out of my mouth were not at all what they should have been.

"Which muffin? I have two."

She snorted before answering. "The blueberry one. I'd like the other one to stay where it is for now. I could use some company."

It took me a second too long to find my voice again, and I moved my muffin - the blueberry one - as I replied.

"Sure, have a seat. I'll just keep my muffins over here. Both of them."

She smiled at me and sat down, and I exhaled slowly in relief. Apparently this girl had at least some sense of humor. I stole a better look at her through the corner of my eye as she fiddled around with her cup and the muffin. She was shorter than me, maybe five foot two, and quite curvy. She had low cut jeans that hugged her behind in a becoming way, and a dark grey, washed out tee with a red cherry followed by the caption "Bomb" on it, which could only be a Runaways reference. She was pretty, too, in a natural way, with little to no make-up, blue eyes, shoulder-length blond hair and short, stubby fingernails with black, partly abraded nail polish. She looked like I would have, had my mother not happened to me this morning.

"I like your tee," I said and nodded towards her chest, letting my eyes linger a fraction of a second too long on her breasts. She looked up at me, surprised.

"You do?" she asked, her eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, I always had a thing for Cherie Currie," I answered, wondering if she would catch on to what I implied with that comment.

"Wow. Uhm... No offense, but you don't look like that kind of girl. I mean, the Runaways-listening kind." She eyed me sceptically, and I huffed loudly.

"Tell me about it. My mother isn't too keen on the rock chick style, and she definitely doesn't find it appropriate for big, annual family gatherings. She vetoed my first choice of outfit and put me into this instead." I gestured over my skirt-clad legs.

"Poor you, having to wear heels and skirt for mommy," she said sympathetically. "Don't worry, though. It looks good on you. Not rock chick good, but definitely... very nice." I thought I saw her eyes drift along my legs, but I wasn't sure.

"Well, in that case, thank you very much." I lifted my coffee cup to her. "Hey, cheers for Cherie Curry and rock chicks."

She put her cup against mine, and answered in a serious tone. "To Cherie Curry and rock chicks - although I always fancied Joan Jett."

I took a long sip of coffee, mulling over that last comment. It could mean two things. Either she just liked her as a musician, or she was hinting that she in fact did like girls, just like I did when mentioning Cherie in the first place.

Maybe she did check out my legs. One could only hope. I was tired of only eating blueberry flavored muffins that came in a paper bag.

"So..." I began, "what brings you to this neighborhood?" I turned my body slightly against her, and noticed she mirrored my movement. Our knees almost, but not entirely touched. I wanted to inch closer to see if she would back away. I didn't dare, so I stayed perfectly still, waiting for her answer.

"I'm here auditioning for a band, actually. I'm staying in the motel," she said, motioning to the entrance of the motel behind us.

"No way! This motel? I'm staying here, too. Although I'm not auditioning for a band; I'm not cool enough. I'm here meeting my relatives and playing girly-girl for mom," I explained.

"What do you mean, not cool? You wear heels and like The Runaways. That's way cooler than me. I can't even walk in heels, which is why I keep wearing those old chucks." She looked down on her feet and wiggled them, making her legs coming very close to mine with every move. I kept my legs still, stupid as usual, and watched her shoes.

"I envy your chucks. They are a lot more comfortable than those heels. I walk in them alright, mom had me practising since I was thirteen and she thought I needed to start acting more like a girl," I admitted.

"She did what? Did you actually practise walking in heels?" Her eyes grew big, reminding me of some character from those manga books my little cousins were reading all the time.

"Sure I did," I answered. "She made me prance around like a model on a runway, with her in front showing me how to move, and me following after, trying to mimic the way she swayed her hips as she walked. So stupid..." I shook my head and laughed.

"You have to show me," she said in a serious voice.

"Uhm, I don't think so," I exclaimed.

"Pleeease," she whined, "show me the sway. I want to see you prance!"

I sighed heavily, just for good measure, before I smiled, put my shoes back on and got up. I did the full routine in front of her, the runway-walk and a little twirl at the end. She watched me in silence, with her mouth partly open, and as I turned back after my twirl I thought I saw the tip of her tongue slip out and lick her lips. I blinked, and it was gone so quickly I decided it must have been wishful thinking. After all, why would a hot, band auditioning rock chick be interested in some average Annie dressed up like a secretary?

"So, what do you think? Mom's lady-training pay out?"

"Oh believe me, it did." She nodded, in what I hoped was appreciation, but I wasn't quite sure.

I bowed my head down as I sat on the bench again, trying to hide the faint blush that was about to break out. I reached for the jacket and pulled out my phone in an attempt to draw the attention from my facial area, pretending to check for missed calls.

"Expecting a text or something?" she asked, her tone casual but a tad more curious than I'd expected. "Boyfriend missing you?"

My head jerked up.

"What? No! Nothing like that, I just... I don't do boyfriends."

"No? Girlfriend wondering where you're hiding?" she asked, her fingers plucking at some invisible thread on her jeans.

"Uhm, no, I... I don't have a girlfriend. Well, I have friends who are girls, of course, but no girlfriend." I creased my eyebrows, trying to figure out what she was asking, and how to answer without making a fool of myself.

"You don't do girlfriends either?" Her voice was low, questioning and curious. I didn't know what to say to that, so I took the easy way out by going a completely different direction with my answer.

"I was just checking to see if any relatives were wondering where I went... I kinda left early. But it seems like no one's noticed. Either that, or they don't care."

She tilted her head and watched me in silence, as I yapped on about Uncle Dave and his ulcer, all the time wishing my mouth would stop talking. Her warm hand suddenly appeared on my knee, squeezing it gently and effectively shutting me up. I stared at her black fingernails contrasting against my charcoal skirt.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have to go. Audition and all, you know."

"Oh, okay..." I said, instantly regretting my verbal diarrhea. Of course she would want to go after my tirade about stupid relatives and their not-so-interesting health issues.

"But hey, I'll be back in a couple of hours, and maybe we could go grab a beer or something? I'd love to hear more about Aunt Agatha and her toe corns."

"Yeah right. 'Cause Aunt Agatha's toe corns are soooo interesting..." I snorted, still looking at her hand on my knee.

"I'm serious. Well, not about Aunt Agatha. But I'd really like to see you again. I'll tell you what, I'll write my room number down, and you drop by at, say, six o'clock, if you'd like. I'll wait until six-thirty, and if you're not there by then I get the hint."

She took her empty Starbucks cup and fished out a black felt-tip from her jeans. She scribbled something down on the cup and put it next to my half eaten blueberry muffin.

"I hope I'll see you later. And you can keep the heels on, if you want to." She winked at me and left before I could come up with a witty response. I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened. Did she ask me out? In spite of Uncle Dave and Aunt Agatha? And did she really want me to keep the heels on?

I looked at my feet, crammed into the black strap heels, and pursed my lips. My feet did look pretty good in them. And they did wonders for my legs and ass, without a doubt.

Yep, the heels stay on. But the skirt and blouse have to go. I turned the coffee cup around, looking for her room number, and there it was. 11E.

I took my jacket and stood up, brushing blueberry muffin off my skirt, and headed towards my room. If I remembered correctly, I had a pair of skinny jeans and a Ziggy Stardust tee in my suitcase.

This might just be the night when I finally got to eat some real muffin again.

Like I said - one could only hope...


	6. All you need

**Written for ****http : / / picprompt . blogspot . com**** . Inspired by the following picture:**

**http : / / s3prod . weheartit . netdna – cdn . com / images / 5649765 / tumblr_laxh8ioRrc1qze8ugo1_400_large . jpg?1292811172**

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_**All you need is a friend to hold your hand**_

The gravel crunched under the wheels of my car as I turned into the parking lot. I found a place to park in the shadows under a big oak tree, and as I stopped the car, the distinct squeak from the brakes made me wince and regret I hadn't taken that offered appointment at the mechanics today. The conflict between two "should haves" had left me with yet another week of squeaking brakes, and a trip I had postponed for too long already. I didn't have it in my heart to wait any longer, although I knew it most likely didn't matter. The concept of time was one of the things that had left her early, and an hour, a day, a month or a year was all the same.

I turned the ignition off and sat back for a while, letting my eyes wander over the premises. The white, mansion-like building made a stark contrast against the soft greens of the surrounding recreation-ground, where plump bushes, slender young mountain ashes, big maple trees and old peony plants were scattered in between footpaths and small pastures. Small benches sat along the paths in the shade of the trees, providing regular places to rest for the old, crippled people slowly strolling the grounds.

A knock on my car window brought me out of my wandering thoughts, and I waved to one of the nurses I recognized from Grandma's floor. He opened the door and lent me his hand to help me out of the car, like the true gentleman he was. His large hand was strong but soft and tender, and and my small one was white against his black skin.

"Here you go, Ma'am. Let me help you out."

"Thanks, Darrell, that's so sweet of you,"

"You're welcome, anything for my favorite lady's granddaughter. She'll be so happy to see you. Today is a good day." He smiled at me, an open and genuine one. The kind of smile you rarely see nowadays.

"It is? That's good. Has she been giving you any trouble lately?"

"Oh no, Ma'am, not more than I can take. She's a feisty ol' lady when she wants to be, but that's why I like her."

"I know you do, Darrell, and I'm so happy she has you to take care of her. She's in the best hands, I know that."

"Now you're making me blush, Ma'am, and that ain't easy for a black man." He winked at me, and I laughed at him and locked the car. Small talk filled the short walk to the retirement home. Grandma was sitting in the common room, in an armchair next to the window overlooking the courtyard. A ray of sunshine fell through the window and made her thin, white hair glow like a silvery halo. Darrell kneeled beside her, taking her hand and patting it gently.

"Mrs Stevenson, Ma'am, you have a visitor," he said in a soft voice.

"I do? Who?" Her tiny voice chimed and drifted across the room, and I cleared my throat as I approached her.

"Grandma? It's me, Erin." I took a chair, put it next to her and sat down. Her dim sight travelled across my face and confusion spread over her features, before recognition lit her eyes and she smiled at me.

"Welcome my sweet, it's so nice to see you again. Although you shouldn't have come by so soon, you are far to busy to be spending so much time with an old lady like me."

"It's no problem, Grandma. It's been a few weeks since I visited."

"Really?" She furrowed her eyebrows. "Oh. It felt just like yesterday."

I swallowed the lump of guilt in my throat and patted her shoulder. I couldn't decide if I was happy that she didn't realize how long it had been, or sad that she either was so unaware of the time that she didn't remember, or so bored and idle that days and weeks melted into each other.

"Darrell tells me you're having a good day, Grandma. Are you feeling all right?"

"Oh honey, I'm as well as can be expected. Mr Eckhart keeps proposing to me everyday, I keep turning him down." She glanced around the room, leaned her head towards mine and lowered her voice. "I think he's just after my room since it's bigger than his and closer to the television," she whispered in confidence. I put my forehead against hers and snickered.

"Oh Grandma, always wanted by the gentlemen, are you? I see you haven't lost your allure to the opposite sex."

"Oh dear goodness, I'm sure it has nothing to do with my physical assets. I bet it's just propositions out of convenience. But how about you, dear? You still have your assets in good shape, you must be drowning in suitors."

"Oh, I don't have time for suitors. I'm married to work, remember?"

She smacked her tongue and shook her head in disapproval.

"The ideas you young women have, I will never understand. When I was young, we married quickly, raised our children and served our husbands. It was a privilege to contribute to the family like that, to mold our young ones into fine citizens and give our husbands a home and a wife to be proud of."

"I know, Grandma, and I know Grandpa was indeed very proud of you." I watched her as her mind drifted from present to past and sat beside her in silence, stroking her hand once in a while. I knew better than to try chatting when her mind was wandering, and allowed myself to get lost in my own thoughts as I waited for her to come back from her absent state of mind.

Someone opened and closed the door, and her head jerked around.

"Joseph, is that you?" she piped up. I stroke her cheek and answered.

"No, Grandma, it was just a nurse. Grandpa isn't around anymore, don't you remember?"

She looked at me, and I could see the dimness covering her eyes again, telling me that her mind was still clouding her memories and her perception of now and then.

"Excuse me, who are you? And where is my Joseph?" she asked, annoyance in her frail voice.

"I'm Erin, your granddaughter. Joseph died a long time ago, you live in this retirement home now. Mr Eckhart wants to marry you, but you keep turning him down, poor man."

"Oh, Erin, of course. How nice of you to stop by. How are your children, dear?"

"Grandma, I don't have any children. I'm married to work, remember?"

"I'm sorry, my head gets fuzzy sometimes. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Don't worry, Grandma. Don't worry."

She fell silent again, leaned her head against the backrest and looked out the window. White clouds slowly moved over the bright blue sky and the leaves were rustling in an occasional breeze. A car honked in the parking lot and one of the old men sitting on a bench lifted his hand and waved.

"I wonder if Roland is stopping by later. He always visits on Thursdays, and he's expecting homemade cookies," she suddenly said. I scratched my head, wondering what to answer. Should I tell her that Roland, too, had passed away, and that he hadn't visited on Thursdays since Grandma still lived at home? I felt bad already for crushing her hopes that Grandpa was still around, so I chose to play along.

"He still visits on Thursdays? That's so nice of him," I said, keeping my tone light and happy although inside I wanted to weep. Weep for my disoriented Grandma, for all the people that had died and left her behind, and for me because sometimes it felt like I'd already lost her, even though she was sitting right there next to me.

"Yes he does, he's such a sweet man. Since his mother died, you know Joseph's older sister, I think he's started to view me as a mother of sorts. He's very attentive and always calls to make sure I'm okay, asking if I need anything. He doesn't have anybody else you know... No family, only a few friends, and since his... male friend... killed himself in that horrible way, he's got no one to love anymore."

She paused and thought for a while, and I nodded and mumbled something affirmative to fill the silence.

"I've always known he's a sodomite, you know." Her blunt words made me choke on a breath of air, and before I could admonish her for her choice of words she continued.

"Of course he'd turn out that way, with the way his mother doted on him. He was such a mama's boy, and dear Lord, did he ever love his mother... The way he loved her, there was no love left in him for another woman. And believe me, if he'd ever meet someone, that mother of his would have made the poor woman's life a living hell. No one was good enough for her boy, that's for sure. Wonder if she ever asked herself why that handsome, polite and well-educated son of hers never got married, and spent all his free time with his male friend." She lifted her hands and made air quotes at that last word, and I couldn't help but snicker.

"I guess her perfect son couldn't possibly be gay," I said, and Grandma snickered back before turning to me with a pleading expression in her face.

"Could you please be a dear and go down to the cellar to see if I have any cookies left for Roland when he gets here?" I hesitated before I rose from my seat.

"Of course, Grandma. I'll be right back."

I left the room, closed the door and leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh. Nurses nodded at me as they passed by in the boring hallway, carrying bedpans, medicine and the occasional food tray. I rested my eyes on the pale green wall and the white border running at elbow height all along the corridor, counting the minutes until I got to a point where Grandma could believe I had rummaged through her freezer in search for home-made cookies and come up empty handed. I pushed the door open again and started talking as I crossed the floor.

"I'm sorry Grandma, there were no cookies left. I guess you need to make a new batch." She sighed as I sat down.

"It's okay. He always calls first, and if I tell him I'm out of cookies, he'll bring his own. He makes excellent cookies, much better than mine anyway."

"No one makes better cookies than you, Grandma," I said and took her hand. She patted me with her other hand and looked out the window again, and I leaned my head against the side of her armchair. Time passed as we sat in silence, watching the sun move over the sky and the shadows grow longer. I knew I had to leave soon, and when I turned towards her to say good bye, I saw a tear roll down her cheek.

"Hey, don't be sad, Grandma," I said, stroking her cheek and brushing away her tear.

"Roland's not coming today, is he?" she asked silently.

"I'm afraid not, Grandma. I wish I could stay instead, but I have to go."

"I know, sweetie. It was good of you to drop by. It can't be much fun for you to sit here with this old lady."

I hugged her thin shoulders and mumbled in her ear.

"It may not be fun all the time, but I value every day I get with you. I love you, Grandma."

She kissed my cheek, a quick, dry peck with her chapped old lips, and I made a mental note to bring her some chapstick next time.

"I love you too, Erin. Now go and be married to work again." She smiled at me through watery eyes, and my chest hurt as I turned around to leave. Darrell showed up out of nowhere, being the excellent nurse he always was, and grasped my shoulder.

"Don't worry Ma'am, I'll take care of her," he said in his deep, mellow voice, before taking his seat next to her. I paused and watched them together; one small, white old lady and one huge, black man, who had bonded beyond age, colour and gender to form a real friendship.

Her frail, pale hand rested in his strong, dark one as he stroked her wrinkly, paper-thin skin, and I knew she'd be alright with him.

Because all you really need is a friend to hold your hand.


	7. I am that woman

**Written for ****http : / / picprompt . blogspot . com**** . Inspired by the following pictures:**

**https : / / lh3 . googleusercontent . com / -xu_-T2sRW6A/TgKvkjs2xpI/AAAAAAAAAu8 / EbjtGmbTP84 / red%252520dress . jpg**

**http : / / data . whicdn . com / images / 6713948/tumblr_lftavxbl8T1qa0ws0o1_500_large . png?1296351163**

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_**I am that woman**_

A dark-haired woman in a red gown, velvet brocade with black lace details and black satin lining. Passionate and lusty, aggressive and powerful. Sophisticated and elegant, mysterious and evil. Sexuality, with a lining of sadness. Little Red Riding Hood, after she kicked the wolf's ass and beat him into submission. Ever heard that version of the fairytale? No? Just make sure you tell your daughters that they don't need a strong, manly woodcutter to save them. They can do that on their own.

A fair maiden in a white cotton dress, clean hands with shiny fingernails guarding a fragile glass jar, the bright light of future generations held close to her womb. Innocent and peaceful, simple and pure. Clinical and sterile, wintry and cold. Reverence, with a lining of death. The bride walking towards the altar, dressed to meet the love of her life, the strength of twosomeness, the safety of following the norms. The bride walking towards the altar, dressed to meet the bane of her youth, the death of her independence, the suppression of her sexuality. Ever heard of that version of marriage? No? Just make sure to tell your daughters that they don't need a husband to be happy. They can do that on their own.

I am both these women, and many more. Show me the colors of the rainbow, and I find myself in every one of them. Dress me in a rainbow flag, and see the complex picture of a real woman.


	8. The 10:15 train to Poughkeepsie

**Written for ****http : / / picprompt . blogspot . com**** . Inspired by the following pictures:**

**http : / / legacyentries . weheartit . netdna-cdn . com / 20090328174710 . jpg**

**http : / / data . whicdn . com / images / 11247371 / 189831_202332059791865_100000452176981_668540_1745867_n_large . jpg?1309097505**

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_**The 10:15 train to Poughkeeps**__**ie**_

The floor is cold under the soles of her feet, as she stands quietly, watching the door. It's closed, safely locked to keep the healthy people out and the unhealthy people in. She's biding her time, patiently waiting for the right moment, hoping for an unguarded second and a loophole into his world to open. She has her best dress on, like yesterday and all the days before that, just in case an opportunity rises. She wants to look her best when they meet again, not because she's afraid he will not love her anymore, but because she wants to celebrate their reunion. She knows he'll be waiting for her, sitting at their meeting point, waiting for her to get off the train and run to him. He'll have their breakfast ready, Sugar Puffs and a bottle of milk, and they'll share it with their head closely together, whispering secrets no one else knows, in words no one else understands.

She shifts her feet as someone approaches the door, tensing her muscles, preparing for flight. Pretending to intensely examine the paint on the wall, she waits for a crack in the security, a weak moment in the ever present watchfulness.

An unguarded moment.

A door closing too slowly.

Bare feet silently running towards freedom.

A white dress flitting in a chink of a door.

Bright sun on a face.

Fresh air in a pair of lungs.

Last call for the 10:15 train to Poughkeepsie.

.

.

.

.

Milk and Sugar Puffs, whispered secrets, and a pure and patient love.


End file.
